Larouerre
Fosh · Scoundrel · Level 1
Identity
Ability scores
Saving throws
Skills
Weapons
| Name | Attack | Damage | Range |
|---|---|---|---|
| ●Blaster Pistol | +5 | 1d10 Energy | 50 ft |
| ●Unarmed Strike | +1 | 1 -1 bludgeoning | — |
Languages
Inventory
- Half-Vest · 2 kg
- Blaster Pistol · 1 kg
- Computer Spike +1 · 1 kg
- Medpac I · 0.5 kg
Backstory
The Fosh had never been a common sight in the galaxy, and Larouerre had spent most of her twenty-one years being reminded of that. On Nar Shaddaa, the Smugglers' Moon, nobody cared what species you were — only what you could do and what you were worth. She had grown up in the lower warrens of the Corellian Sector, daughter of a Fosh trader whose iridescent plumage had long since dulled from years spent under recycled air and artificial light. Her mother had scraped out a living moving spice-adjacent cargo for mid-tier Hutt intermediaries, never rich, never safe, but alive. That had been enough for her mother. It was never enough for Larouerre. She had watched freighters scream overhead through the gaps in the exhaust-stained skylights her whole childhood, and the wanting had taken root early — something visceral, not intellectual. She couldn't always explain it in words. Numbers and theory bored her; manuals held her attention for about as long as it took to realise she could learn faster by touching something, breaking it, and fixing it with whatever was close at hand. She had a mechanics talent that came not from schooling but from necessity, from pulling apart salvaged nav-units in the warren corridors and teaching herself what made them run. The blaster pistol she carried now belonged to a dockworker she'd once patched up in exchange for the weapon, a transaction that meant more to her than any formal exchange. It was the first thing that had ever been hers outright. The cost came in the shape of a man named Vess Drako — a Duros mid-level smuggler who ran a tight little courier operation out of a retrofitted Corellian freighter called the *Sable Crescent*. Larouerre had talked her way aboard at nineteen, a feat easier accomplished through her natural Fosh ability to read and manipulate the emotional chemistry of a room than through any resume she could have offered. She had been his cargo loader, his mechanic's assistant, and his spare set of hands. She had been learning to fly — quietly, on the sly, logging hours in the co-pilot seat when Drako slept, getting a feel for the controls that no book had ever given her. Then the *Sable Crescent* ran into a New Republic customs intercept near the Outer Rim transit lanes beyond Kessel. Drako panicked and ran. Larouerre, at the controls because Drako had been drunk in the back, pushed the ship hard but made the call wrong — the hyperdrive jump was miscalculated badly, and they dropped out in the middle of a debris field. The ship survived. Drako did not blame the debris field. He blamed her. She was off the *Sable Crescent* at the next port with nothing but the vest on her back, a medipack she'd pocketed out of pride, and the crushing knowledge that she had been *this close* and had failed when it mattered. The Computer Spike on her belt was lifted from a dockside information broker she'd deceived beautifully three weeks later — proof that her instincts for reading people were sharper than her instincts for astrogation. But instinct wasn't a ship, and a ship was everything. She is still looking for one.
Roleplaying notes
- **Dexterity Over Force:** Larouerre is small, physically weak, and knows it — when things escalate toward violence, lean into her DEX 16 through evasion and positioning rather than confrontation; she survives by not being where the hit lands, not by absorbing it. - **Emotional Reader:** Fosh is naturally attuned to pheromonal and empathic social cues, which feeds directly into her Deception and Intimidation proficiencies — play her as someone who reads the room before she speaks, adjusting her approach instinctively and unsettlingly fast for someone so young. - **Ritual Tinkering:** Whenever she's in an unfamiliar place or feeling anxious, Larouerre fidgets with something mechanical — a panel, a loose bolt, the casing of her blaster — not nervously, but with focused, quiet competence, as if grounding herself through her hands. - **Transactional Trust:** She is warm with people she's decided are useful and cold with everyone else; she doesn't make friends easily, but once she's decided you're crew, she is fiercely, almost recklessly loyal — because she knows what it feels like to be dropped at a port with nothing. - **Clipped and Direct:** She speaks in short sentences, avoids technical jargon she can't back up, and uses intimidation not through volume but through stillness — a flat stare, a pause held too long, the kind of quiet that makes people want to fill it with confessions.